


All I Want

by craple



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Love Confessions, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's this really attractive bloke with the really attractive face who keeps following Grantaire around with his fluffy blonde hair and demanding Grantaire to go out with him through his very attractive blue eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want

**Author's Note:**

> this is done at 0.12 pardon this is a bit messy

There's this guy – blonde hair, blue eyes, with these really fantastic bones structure – who follows him everywhere. From classes to cafeteria to Grantaire's fucking dorm, and it is all very endearing but also very frightening, because the guy is asking something Grantaire cannot give him.

"Remember," Blondie says, pulling a neatly-folded paper out of his bag, stretches it carefully to reveal a picture of Blondie himself, in Grantaire's drawing style, also with Grantaire's famous _'R'_ signature at the left bottom of the paper. "You made this for me." 

"I also called you pretty. That doesn't mean I _know_ you the way you claimed you know _me _." Grantaire points out. The hurt look passing across the man's face is heartbreaking, but. This is the forty-sixth time the guy ambushes him during much-needed lunch, and Grantaire has two more classes to go to.__

"Look, I don't know what you know, or what you think you know. I've never met you before, something of which I am a hundred percent positive about, because I'd certainly remember, a face like yours – so. Just. Leave me alone, okay?"

He's been saying the same thing since last Monday, when Blondie refused to leave him alone and ask him random trivial things about wars and revolutions and the injustice of the world's justice system.

Grantaire answered the questions as eloquently as possible while sketching the guy, was satisfied when it came out as good as he wished it to be, thanked Blondie – Enjolras, he had said – and thought he would never see the guy around anymore, as he was clearly on a different level entirely; that of perfection while Grantaire is, well, _Grantaire_.

He smokes when he's under pressure and drinks when he's depressed. He paints dark things and draws the cold merciless reality – children beaten by the cops, women beaten by husbands, men beaten for being different, people starving on the street of Paris – instead of beautiful, beautiful dreams, like Gods and deities and angels with ivory wings.

Grantaire exists, but he's not living, not exactly, and Enjolras is the scorching fire to Grantaire's frozen-solid-ice-cube, and Grantaire does not deserve this kind of torture where Enjolras pretends to _want_ him when he actually _despises_ him.

This is the first time Grantaire's voice is so cutting, so sharp, wholehearted and he means it, because he is tired of Enjolras following him and tugging at the end of his sleeves and playing with his curls when Grantaire isn't paying attention to him and sprawls his body all over Grantaire's lap like it's okay without asking for Grantaire's permission first.

It is frightening, this sudden burst of affection from some stranger he met in his exhibition, who apparently thinks Grantaire's works are _gorgeous, so beautiful, Grantaire, you are perfect_ – and Grantaire is terrified, mind-numbingly so, to the bones.

Enjolras' lips pursed. "But I _do_ know you," he insists, like a petulant child. "Your real name is not Grantaire. You like your coffee black and you don't like it when the sun hits you directly in the face. You like it when I pet your hair – don't lie, you've fallen asleep on my shoulder before, more than once – and it unnerves you when I talk of history.

"You're trying to stop smoking and has been sober for three months. I like you and want to date you, but apparently you don't like me and don't want to date me." Enjolras finishes, rather sadly, which. Makes Grantaire blink, twice, twice again, then again.

"Come again?" Grantaire says, dumbstruck and breathless, because what.

"I've been trying to ask you out on a date –"

"You've been showing me sketches of yourself that you claimed to have been made by me and _commanded_ me to remember of my existence during a rebellion in Paris, 1832, which is _impossible_ seeing that I am standing right here –"

"That's because we have been reincarnated –"

" _And_ you've been forcing your beliefs on me, bothering me during lunch hour, waiting for me after classes even though your lecture building is like, two clicks away from mine –"

"That's because I really _like_ you!" blurts Enjolras loudly.

Grantaire stares. He starts laughing, and doesn't care enough to ignore the positively look of hurt on Enjolras' beautiful, beautiful face.

"I'm a drunk," Grantaire says. "And I smoke a lot. I skip classes more often than not, I'm not good in anything other than painting, and _I don't believe in anything_. I am the exact opposite of what you are, the very being you are designed to _hate_ at first sight, and you _really like me_?"

"Yes," Enjolras says, decisively, meeting Grantaire's eyes. "I really like you, you and your dry humor and your sarcastic comments. You with your stupidly blue eyes and soft curls. You who laughs openly and never gives a flying fuck of what others think of you. You who actually looks at me when you think I'm not looking, because I _know_ you feel the same."

By now, everyone is staring at them openly. Grantaire can make out the shape of one Jehan Prouvaire in the crowds, of Courfeyrac and Bossuet snapping pictures, but he can't tear his eyes off Enjolras' figure, with his arms crossed and his eyes determined, looking at Grantaire like Grantaire is the only one in the world.

"Now. Before the cook could kick us out of the cafeteria and possibly banning us from coming forever, will you please say yes to my offer already?"

Grantaire's throat feels dry.

 _Grantaire_ himself feels dry.

Enjolras, for all of his demands and confidence, actually looks so fucking scared.

Grantaire can see it, from the slight tremor in his fingers, the hitching breaths he takes, and it reminds Grantaire of that time when he woke up to Enjolras staring at his face, caressing Grantaire's cheeks with feather-light brushes of his fingers, free hand tightening around Grantaire's waist when Grantaire tried to move away.

Suddenly, he sees flashes of red and gold and crimson; of terrible days long past, of love long lost. Grantaire sways on his feet, blinks, and sees the most beautiful smile on a beautiful face; of Enjolras' blue eyes and long fingers curling around Grantaire's own.

Taking a deep breath, Grantaire moves closer, and tentatively curls Enjolras' fingers with his. They fit perfectly, like it's meant to be. Grantaire looks into Enjolras' eyes.

"Yes," Grantaire says. "Yes, I want. I want to date you too."

 _This is a bad idea_ , Grantaire thinks, but then –

But then Enjolras smiles wider, bright and happy and so in love, and Grantaire's heart stutters in his chest.

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, as Enjolras touches his lips to Grantaire's. _Just maybe_.

For the first time in a long while, he lets himself hope.

He doesn't regret it.


End file.
